


i picture it, soft, and i ache

by angelsdemonsducks



Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Pining, Sympathetic Deceit | Janus Sanders, implied Touch Starvation, janus: ..., janus: i have trust issues and might not have the capacity to love, janus: well shit, patton: -smiles-, post-SvS Redux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:34:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24201409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelsdemonsducks/pseuds/angelsdemonsducks
Summary: He cannot love Patton.But god, does he want to.It doesn't take Janus very long to fall in love with Patton, when it comes down to it. It takes him far longer to accept it, and to allow it to grow.
Relationships: Morality | Patton Sanders/Deceit | Janus Sanders
Comments: 60
Kudos: 592





	i picture it, soft, and i ache

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Mitski's 'Strawberry Blond.'
> 
> Content warning for a brief, non-graphic depiction of a panic attack.
> 
> This fic now has a podfic [here](https://whenisitenoughtrees.tumblr.com/post/627294142414913536/titheinironside-summary-taken-from) by @titheinironside on tumblr!

It’s unbelievable, how fast he falls.

He prides himself on his rationality, his pragmatism. He’s no Logan, of course, but it has been a very long time since he allowed his emotions to get in his way. Over the years, that has cost him so much-- his relationship with Virgil, his ability to trust and be trusted, any moral compass that he may once have possessed, among other things. But he has never regretted it, not once, because his primary directive is to help Thomas, and if he has to play the villain to do so, so be it. Lord knows none of the others see the world for what it is, are willing to do what it takes to ensure Thomas’ success.

But the scene is like this: time passes, Thomas begins to listen to him, and one day, Patton smiles. He doesn’t know at what, doesn’t know why, because he wasn’t paying attention until now, but Patton smiles, wide and bright, and in that moment, Janus would do anything for that smile to be directed at him.

In the next moment comes realization: _oh_.

In the next few days comes denial: _no._

Because above all else, he knows himself, knows what he is built for and what he is not. He is not built for this love, all-encompassing and brilliant, not built for this depth of devotion. His very being is defined by his loyalty to Thomas and Thomas alone, his ability to use and discard the others at will as long as Thomas will benefit. He is a snake and a liar, cunning, selfish, cowardly, and he has spent his entire existence pushing away the possibility of anything else.

He cannot love Patton.

But god, does he want to. Patton burns like the brightest star in the sky, moves like the gentlest breeze on the warmest summer day, laughs like the freest dancer on the greenest field, and Janus is caught in his orbit, hopelessly entranced, hanging off his every word. The first time Patton touches him skin to skin, a graze against his forearm, causally, in passing, he has to excuse himself and stand in the center of his room for hours to catch his breath. His heart races too fast, and his entire arm feels as though it has been set alight, and all he wants is for it to happen again.

He is in too deep, sinking too quickly. He is at the bottom of the ocean, and even as the pressure of the water overhead crushes him, even as the darkness swallows him whole, he cannot bring himself to fight for the surface. If this is drowning, then he will drown and be grateful.

He cannot love Patton. But it is far, far too late for that.

“Wow,” Remus says, impressed against all odds. “You are a gay disaster.”

He groans. “I don’t know why I expected you to help me,” he mutters, and Remus shrugs, entirely unapologetic.

“You know I don’t do the whole romance thing,” he says. “Not my department. Have you tried, uh--” He scrunches his nose, and Janus knows that whatever comes out of his mouth next will be truly ridiculous-- “telling him, maybe? With, um, roses? That’s romantic shit, right? But you gotta take all the thorns off so that he doesn’t prick his thumb and blood doesn’t go spurting everywhere--”

“Please stop,” he groans, and that is the end of that.

 _Tell Patton_. Absurd.

And he cannot tell anyone else. Cannot ask for help. He can tell Remus because he trusts Remus, to the extent that he trusts him to be exactly what he is, no more and no less, and Remus trusts him in the same way. But in general, trust is a foreign concept to him, once known but long lost, like returning to an old favorite book and realizing that the words have faded beyond all recognition.

But that’s alright. He is used to being alone. He has been alone for so long that he barely remembers what honest companionship feels like, and that is part of the problem, isn’t it? He has built so many walls around himself, walls that only he is ever allowed to breach, but here is Patton, waiting outside the gates and asking to be let in. Not demanding, not threatening; he brings no battering ram, no armies. Just himself, and his smile, and flowers in his hair, and that has more effect than twenty armies could.

He wants to open the gates. But the chains are rusted, the keys long lost, and that does not even take into account the danger of it, the danger of allowing himself to love another. Thomas is his priority, but what happens to him when that changes? What does he become? And what does that say about the worth of every action he has taken to lead him to this point?

Can he love? Is he capable of that unique vulnerability? He doesn’t think so. Love and trust go hand in hand, and if he cannot manage one, the other will evade him. He’s dancing a waltz meant for two on an empty stage, stumbling over his own feet because he has no one to catch him.

“You need to stay away from Patton,” Virgil tells him, eyes dark and clouded over with years of betrayal.

“Oh?” he asks. “Why is that?”

Virgil snorts, kicking away from the wall he’s leaning on. He approaches him slowly, deliberately, and the threads that hold Janus in place are invisible, intangible, but there all the same. A spiderweb capable of holding a serpent fast.

“Don’t think I don’t see the way you look at him,” Virgil says, and fear lands heavily in his chest. “I know everyone’s all eager to accept you and have you around these days, but I know what you are. Whatever you’re planning, leave him out of it.”

“Ah, yes,” he replies. “You know what I am, just as I know what you are, _Virgil_. I wouldn’t throw stones.” He pauses. The words fall from his lips bitter-sharp, and he doesn’t want to be saying them, not like this, but it’s a habit formed from years. There was a time when they were happy, once, but they spoiled each other, and nothing is left of that shared past but a handful of wilted promises and bridges burned beyond repair.

Virgil snorts and shoves past him.

“Out of curiosity,” he says, and Virgil stops, “how do I look at him?”

Virgil turns and stares. “What?” he demands, and Janus knows that it was a mistake.

“Nevermind,” he says, and moves to walk away, but Virgil grabs his arm, hard enough to bruise, and holds him in place. For a minute, he says nothing at all, and Janus is left to search his face, the anger in the tightness of his lips and bewilderment in the tilt of his head.

Then, realization dawns, and Janus wants to be anywhere but here.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Virgil says. “You… I can’t believe you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he says, tightly, coolly. 

Virgil laughs, and it’s the sound of a predator pouncing. “Yeah?” he challenges. “I don’t give a damn what you feel, or what you think you feel. You’re a fucking liar, and a fucking liar is all you’ll ever be. You’re not capable of giving him what he deserves.”

They are standing so close to each other, a distance of inches, but he has never felt farther away from him. What they once had is lost, but in the space between breaths, he allows himself to mourn its death, hating himself for the weakness all the while.

“I know,” he says.

Virgil scowls, dire warning in the shadows on his face, and releases him, stomping away. Janus watches him go, and he aches.

A moment later, Patton pokes his head around the corner.

“Is everything okay?” he asks, eyes pinched with concern. “I thought I heard arguing.”

 _I want to kiss you,_ he doesn’t say. _I want you to hold me and never let go,_ he doesn’t say. _I want to love you, and I want you to love me, please, would you love me?_ he doesn’t say.

“It was nothing,” he says. “We’ve sorted it.”

Patton doesn’t seem convinced, but he lets it be. Janus watches him go, and he aches.

No one ever told him that love would hurt. He supposes he should have guessed it. Nothing that is worth having ever comes easily, and even though his breath catches every time Patton walks into a room, even though his heart tries to burst from his chest every time Patton deigns to glance his way, he doesn’t think he would trade this for anything. He can barely remember a time before this, before this love crawled into his chest and took up residence.

He takes whatever Patton will give him, laps up the crumbs like a starving dog. He accepts every offer of dinner, every invitation to watch a movie or play a game, even though all the rest of them barely tolerate him at best and openly hate him at worst. He’ll endure Virgil’s scorn, Roman’s enmity, Logan’s dismissal, as long as it means he can stay by Patton’s side. And Patton, at least, seems to like that he’s there, and most of him screams that it can’t be trusted, that there must be an ulterior motive, because that is the way he has thought about other people for nearly three decades and it’s so hard to try to change that. But he also knows that Patton doesn’t work that way. No matter how foolish it may be, he is genuine and true. Everything that Janus is not.

He entices smiles from him, teases laughter, and rejoices in the fact that it is him that draws these responses. It is all he will ever have, all he will ever be brave enough to take, and it is more than enough, more than he ever expected he could receive.

He cannot love Patton. But he does.

Roman corners him one day, and he lets him, because he has no idea why Roman of all people would seek him out. Things are better between them, but not by much, and Roman himself is still fragile in an odd way, as if saying the wrong thing one more time will prompt a total collapse. Janus has wanted many things from Remus’ twin, but never that.

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Roman says, through gritted teeth. “But, you and Patton.”

He blinks, taken aback. He told Remus, but Remus wouldn’t tell Roman. Virgil figured him out, but even after everything, Virgil still knows him well enough to read him, so that is no shock. Roman, though, barely manages to make eye contact with him on a good day, so he couldn’t, shouldn’t know, unless he is being far more obvious than he thought he was. That thought alone is enough to send an icy tendril of fear down his spine.

“What about me and Patton?” he asks, and hopes that his voice doesn’t shake.

Roman sighs, and his next sentence comes out as if it takes him a great effort to say. “Look, you make him happy, alright?” he states. “I don’t get it, and mostly, I’m scared that you’re just manipulating him, but for some ungodly reason, he actually likes having you around. So what I’m here to say is that if you hurt him, if this all turns out to be for some kind of scheme of yours, I will stab you through the heart and leave you pinned to the ground for the crows to eat. Do you understand me?”

His mouth goes dry. “Perfectly,” he rasps.

Roman looks at him, and then nods. He walks away without a sound, and Janus tries in vain to steady his nerves.

What was that?

_You make him happy._

_You. Make him. Happy._

_Happy happy happy._

His face feels odd. He brings a gloved hand up to feel his cheek, and he realizes he’s smiling, wide and unrestrained like he hasn’t in years.

He makes Patton happy. He makes Patton _happy_.

 _He_ makes Patton happy.

He doesn’t know why, doesn’t know what he does. He can coax out smiles with a bit of smooth talk, bring out laughter with a well-placed pun, but those are both momentary, fleeting things. The idea that he makes Patton happy implies something that goes far beyond moments, implies a lasting fondness and a desire for his company, and he doesn’t know why. He doesn’t know why, and that is a problem, because if he doesn’t know why, he doesn’t know to keep doing it.

Eventually, he works up the courage to ask, and Patton stops in the middle of rolling out his cookie dough.

“Why do I like to hang out with you?” he repeats. His eyes are very blue behind his glasses, like the vastest sky. “It’s because you’re you, silly.” He grins, bubbly and vivacious, and dabs a bit of flour on Janus’ nose. He sticks out his tongue instinctively, and Patton coos at what he calls a ‘blep’ and what Janus calls ‘something that he will deny ever happening so please stop bringing it up.’

“Besides,” Patton adds, more thoughtfully, “we’ve spent so long not being friends, and that was mostly on me. Now that I know how great you are, I don’t want to waste any more time. You’ve been trying so hard all along, and I couldn’t see that.” He grabs Janus’ hand, and he has to stifle a gasp. He can feel the human side of his face heating up, and hopes against all hope that Patton will not notice what must be an obvious blush. “I want to know you better now.”

“Oh,” is all he can say, all he can squeak out between teeth that are too tightly clenched. Even through his glove, Patton’s hand is so very warm, and his hand is tingling at his touch. “Um, I suppose I want to know you better, too,” he adds, stumbling his way through sincerity, and it must be the right answer, because Patton beams.

It’s like standing in sunlight, squinting up at a cloudless sky, in an instant of warmth and light that will last forever. Night will never fall and rain will never come down, and the sun will burn bright until the end of time, and so will he.

That evening, he has a panic attack in Logan’s room.

It starts in the hallway and comes out of nowhere; one moment he is walking to his room, and the next, he is leaning on the wall for support, doubled over and gasping for breath for no reason that he can see. But he happens to be standing near Logan’s door, and he must be loud enough for him to take notice, to come out and lead him somewhere safer, less exposed. He would be more grateful, if his lungs would cooperate.

Logan counts and measures his own breaths, and eventually, he finds himself able to follow the rhythm. He is shaking and sweating and crying just a bit, but the panic eases little by little, leaving him pressed up against the wall, Logan sitting nearby but not touching. He is familiar with the motions; he walked through them for Virgil, once upon a time. He has never been on the receiving end.

“Would you like to discuss it?” Logan asks, when he no longer feels as though his lungs are being constricted by iron bands.

He contemplates what triggered it. He thinks it was nothing in particular, really, nothing but a sudden sensation of being overwhelmed by everything all at once, his feelings and the endless possibilities open before him, a looming, uncertain future. It is as though he is walking a tightrope over a precipice, and the slightest mistake will send him tumbling into darkness. The thought makes his chest clench up again, and he breathes out slowly and deliberately.

“Not particularly,” he manages, and Logan accepts the answer with a nod.

“Very well,” he says, standing and walking to his desk, where he sits down and opens his laptop. “You are welcome to remain here for as long as you would like.”

He considers the offer. It’s far more generous than he expected. He didn’t think that Logan liked him very much. And it’s a nice room. Calming. There are stars painted on the ceiling, an accurate representation of the night sky bathing the room in a soft white glow.

“Thank you,” he says, and for a long while, the two of them sit in silence, Logan typing at his laptop and Janus just breathing, existing. He appreciates it, this comfortable silence, carrying no demands or expectations.

Could Logan help him, he wonders? Perhaps not; Logan barely ever bothers to recognize his own emotions, much less those of someone else. But then, Logan is calm and rational and most importantly, capable of respecting privacy, and perhaps that is just what he needs.

He needs _something_ , of that, he is certain. Panic attacks are a new development, and not one that he wants to continue.

“Logan,” he says, “may I ask you a question?”

Logan swivels in his chair to face him. “You just did,” he points out, “but yes, go ahead.”

He takes a deep breath.

“What is love? If you had to define it, that is.”

He tries to keep his voice level, to reveal none of the importance that the question holds. It is the most open he has been about the subject, besides ranting to Remus, and he trusts Remus in a way that he has not learned to apply to anyone else. But he needs to know, needs to understand, and Logan is his best option for a definition. He will answer, and he will not push. Emotions are not his department.

Logan frowns at him, eyes oddly piercing. “I may not be the best side to go to if you are experiencing difficulties with this matter,” he says. “However, scientifically speaking, love is the emotion produced when certain neurochemicals, such as oxytocin, are released in the brain. I do not generally concern myself with the intricacies of the topic. Emotions are hardly my area of expertise.”

Janus sighs, leaning his head back against the wall. It is just about the answer he was expecting. He’s not sure that it helps. He doesn’t think he can reduce his feelings to chemicals. Not when he thinks he would do anything to keep Patton happy, save putting Thomas at risk.

“Is… there anything else I can answer for you?” Logan asks, and Janus meets his gaze. He seems oddly hesitant, and Janus is certain that he has overplayed his hand, but he is too exhausted to regret the decision. Something needs to give, something needs to change. 

“No, that’s all,” he says. He makes no move to leave, though, content enough to linger in a place that sets order amongst his disordered thoughts, realigns the nonsense into reason. 

“I am no expert,” Logan says, “so you are certainly free to disregard this advice, but I have been informed that… discussing one’s emotions with their object tends to be helpful in alleviating stress, if nothing else.” He is floundering, grasping at straws, but the clumsy attempt at help is genuine, and rather than annoyed, Janus finds himself endeared.

“Thank you,” he says, smiling slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

And he does. Oh, how he does. Once considered, the possibility won’t leave him alone. He watches Patton, spends time with Patton, and wonders what would change if he let the words slip past his lips.

The trust that Patton has extended him is extraordinary. No one has ever looked at him like Patton does, like he cares about him because he is himself and not because of the function he provides. Patton uses his name so easily, like it means nothing, and he knows that names do not have the same significance to those in the light as they do to those in the dark, but he still feels a thrill every time he hears it, because Patton was the first to use it. Was the first to accept the hand that Janus offered, in desperation and the burning need to be heard for Thomas’ sake.

He threw himself off a cliff with only the impossible hope that someone would catch him. And Patton did. Janus can’t go back to the way things were before. He won’t risk losing all that he has gained. And if that is selfish, well. That much is expected of him.

“Do you wanna help me cook dinner tonight?” Patton asks.

He’s in the common room. It’s still a novelty, the ability to be here. Depending on who sees him, he garners the odd distrustful glance, but no one ever demands he leave. It’s refreshing, and more than a little delightful, not that he would ever admit it.

He shrugs. “Absolutely not,” he says, rising. “I despise cooking. Why would you even ask that?”

Weeks and months ago, that would cause Patton to withdraw, would send hurt flashing across his face.

Weeks and months ago, Patton wouldn’t have asked at all.

But now, Patton giggles. “Great,” he says, and from anyone else, Janus would take that to be sarcasm, but as always, Patton means it. He always means it, when he says these things.

Janus follows him into the kitchen, staring at his back and thinking about how different they are. How Patton is good and he… is not. It’s an oversimplification, of course; he knows that very well, better than anyone else, knows that morality is relative and painted in swatches of grey, but still. It never used to bother him.

Patton is making a stir fry, evidently, a new recipe, and sets Janus to preparing the rice as he chops vegetables. He chatters on about everything and nothing, about a dog that Thomas saw yesterday, about the cute barista that Thomas managed to hold a coherent conversation with, about how he managed to beat Logan in Scrabble the other day to everybody’s shock, how he thinks he’s almost got Roman convinced to take him on a quest in the Imagination. A lot of it, Janus already knows, but he is happy to listen to Patton talk, interjecting with dry comments at appropriate times to draw out a laugh or teasing scolding or an exaggerated gasp and a swat at his arm.

And all the time, Patton smiles. Brightly and genuinely.

He’s so caught up in it that he almost doesn’t catch the slip in time, almost doesn’t see Patton’s knife waver too close to his finger as he relates his adventures with a puppy that Roman conjured for him (“--and it almost peed on Logan but I stopped it before it could. Logan still wasn’t happy, though--”). But he does, and his hand darts out to grip Patton’s wrist, halting the knife’s motion before he can give himself a nasty cut.

“Careful,” he murmurs.

“Oh!” Patton says. “Thanks, Janus.” He laughs. “Guess I wasn’t being _sharp_ enough.”

He smiles at the pun, and for a second, he lingers, feeling Patton’s wrist under his fingers. He’s wearing his gloves, but the warmth shoots up his arm regardless.

Then, he realizes that Patton’s face is red.

Ah. He’s made him uncomfortable.

“Apologies,” he says, and pulls back. He expects the incident to fade into the background, forgotten, expects them both to move on without comment.

He doesn’t expect Patton to drop the knife on the cutting board and take his hand in his.

Janus stares. Patton’s face is still red, red like a tomato, and he refuses to make eye contact. Janus feels like he’s frozen, feels like his heartbeat must be audible to the entire Mindscape and probably Thomas too, feels like he wants to run and feels like he never wants to let go.

What is happening?

“You don’t need to apologize to me,” Patton says. He looks at him, finally, and his blue eyes are shining with an emotion that Janus dares not name.

He opens his mouth to reply, but his throat is dry. He clears it, several times, and he wants the ground to swallow him a bit, because surely his infatuation is obvious, is written all across his face. Surely, Patton will see it now, will release his hand and let him down gently, kindly, because that is the type of person that Patton is. Gentle, kind, someone that he loves helplessly and hopelessly and will continue to love until the stars go dark.

“I’ve been thinking,” Patton says softly. “Could I hug you?”

He is wordless, powerless, breathless. He nods. Patton releases his hand, but he only has a moment to mourn the loss of contact before Patton’s arms are wrapped around him, before he is tugged against Patton’s chest, held tight and safe and close, and it is as though every nerve has been lit on fire. He gasps, and his own arms latch onto Patton’s back and do not let go. It is an effort to keep it down to only one pair.

He is so warm. He doesn’t think he has ever been this warm. Even half a dozen heat lamps couldn’t compare to this, this heat and this pressure and this security.

He is trembling, too, and hopes that Patton doesn’t notice.

“I realized that I hadn’t ever done it,” Patton says. “I didn’t know if you would want me to, or if you would like it? But I wanted to see. Are you… you’re shaking, are you okay?”

He moves as if to pull away. Janus doesn’t let him.

“Please don’t let me go,” he rasps. It is too raw, too vulnerable, too honest, and it gives far too much away. And it’s selfish, too, wanting to take so much of his attention, his affections, when he cannot possibly feel the same way that Janus does.

But he doesn’t care.

“Oh,” Patton says, something new in his voice, something like surprise but not quite, and Janus can’t place it but he doesn’t _care_ as long as Patton will keep holding him, because this is all he’s ever wanted, even if it can’t last. “ _Oh_. Oh, honey, I won’t. I won’t, I promise. I won’t let you go.”

Janus buries his face in Patton’s shoulder. Patton rubs soothing circles into his back, and he thinks he could melt.

“You wanna tell me what’s wrong, sweetheart?” Patton murmurs.

He was never built for this love, never built to hold it. Against all odds, he has, though, has held it and nurtured it and allowed it to grow. And perhaps that means that he is not what he has spent so long thinking that he is, that perhaps he can be more. He has held this love and now it is spilling over, seeing the light for the first time, and perhaps the light will reveal it to be ugly and twisted and dark, but he will take the risk if it means he can touch the sun.

“I’m not meant for this,” he says softly, and Patton hums.

“Not meant for what?”

“ _Caring_.”

His voice breaks. Patton makes a small, choked sound and steps back. Janus is forced to let him go, and already, his body is yearning for the contact again. There is only a foot or so between them, but it might as well be the Grand Canyon.

Is this where it ends? Has he broken their friendship?

 _God_ , he’s become so melodramatic.

But no, Patton reaches out, caresses his face, caresses the _left side of his face_ , his hand cupping his scaled cheek as if it’s no different from human skin, and Janus feels as though the ground has dropped out from under him because no one, _no one_ has ever touched him _there_ , like _this_.

“You deserve all the care in the world,” Patton tells him fiercely, passionately, and… he meant it the other way around, meant that he’s not built for caring about others, but to see Patton like this, so determined to defend him even from himself…

Janus kisses him. His lips are as soft as he always imagined they would be. 

He only gives himself a moment before drawing away. Patton is staring at him, face slack with shock.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. His lips are tingling, his body on fire, his emotions bared, and he can’t stand it.

He isn’t built for this, and surely, Patton can see that.

But then, Patton steps closer.

“You don’t need,” Patton says, “to apologize to me.”

And Patton kisses him. Gently, but insistently, asking for an answer but not demanding. And it takes a few seconds, a few long seconds in which he comprehends nothing and too much all at once, can barely wrap his head around the concept of _Patton_ kissing _him_ , but he answers. Answers, and answers, and answers. Answers, and pours everything he has, everything he is into the answering.

They pull back, eventually, and Janus opens his eyes. Patton’s lips are red and swollen, his eyes bright.

“Not unless you didn’t mean it,” Patton says, and it takes him a moment to figure out what he’s talking about.

“I don’t think I’ve ever meant anything more in my life,” he replies, and swallows. “It terrifies me.”

The honesty is excruciating. Is this what love does?

He already knows the answer to that.

“Then let’s be scared together,” Patton says. He reaches out and takes Janus’ hands in his, intertwining their fingers. His yellow gloves stand out against Patton’s skin, and for the first time in a long time, he wants to remove them, to take them off and have skin to skin contact, regardless of the vulnerability that will bring. Not tonight, maybe, but soon?

Patton _kissed_ him.

“That is,” Patton says, “if you want to.” He pauses, and when he speaks again, his voice is even lower, even softer than before. “I really, really like you, Janus.”

He looks at him. Really looks. Patton is nervous, fidgeting, unsure of his answer despite the fact that Janus kissed him first, despite the fact that Janus has been pining, has been burning so long that he has forgotten how not to. But his words ring clear with honesty, and Janus doesn’t think he has ever been this happy, nor this scared.

He can love Patton. All he has to do is say yes.

“Not at all,” he lies. “Why would I?”

And he tugs Patton back in. The kiss is tender, sweet, and Janus doesn’t know how to do this, doesn’t know how to allow another in, doesn’t know how to open up, to trust, to let himself love unabashedly and without restraint. For Patton, though, he is willing to do anything, anything at all. It’s a waltz meant for two, and perhaps the stage isn’t so empty after all.

Against his lips, Patton is smiling at him. So, he smiles back.

He can love Patton, and Patton can love him, and maybe, just maybe, he can believe that everything is going to be alright.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 3k words max, but then Janus refused to stop being melodramatic and literally every other side wanted to put their two cents in, so here we are. Hope y'all enjoyed!


End file.
